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4:37 p.m. - July 17, 2004
Poem: You

Next time you beckon
and show me the prize
breathing fire and arching its
leathery wings,
you can forget about being King Arthur to my
Guinivere, you loud-mouthed, lusty-eyed
Centurion with your sculpted chest and unworked brain,
next time you slide past the lettuce
and cucumbers and eye the broccoli and the boys,
don't expect me to offer you a seat,
you smug, self-proclaimed Hero,
not if you're wearing your Bulls cap, your
24-Hour Fitness t-shirt or your
self-satisfied smirk.
Next time you barge into me like Sisera
barged into that tent, sweaty and demanding,
and ask for a glass of water, I'll give you milk
but that won't be all you'll get.
You, you hypocritical swaggering Odysseus,
are looking for a Penelope who'll wait and weave and
praise the gods when you show up on the doorstep,
but you should know by now, you so-called keeper,
it should have penetrated your thick skull by now
that I am like Athena, I am Morgan le Fay, I am wise
and powerful and cunning and, like Jael, I have a tent peg
and a hammer and you can't stay awake forever.

ŠJEZ, 2003

 

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